


To Be Safe, Once and Again

by tealmoon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Anxiety, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Violence, Intrusive Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealmoon/pseuds/tealmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard enough protecting your brother without having to protect him from yourself, but Papyrus has to try. It was always his job, to fix everything, to keep them alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Safe, Once and Again

He finds himself pacing in front of his brother’s door, ten precise steps one way and ten the other, nearly stomping. If he’s not already asleep, Sans can hear him.

How could he manage to sleep? With a fractured skull leaking red all over himself, his HP halved perfectly, screaming at Papyrus to get the fuck away from him, and just talking must have been painful enough...

He insisted on bandaging it himself, and probably that’s what he’s still doing now, in that locked room: huddled up and trying to wrap it without a mirror or a second pair of hands, no water to clean it up. Papyrus had been ready to do it, to do it _right_. Sans is fumbling, no doubt, and leaving magic everywhere. His skull is probably a mess of medical tape and gauze and awful, ugly crimson.

Sans can’t heal, Papyrus reminds himself, heading down the stairs. Sans needs food, and Papyrus could hide his apology in a plate rather than having to tear the words out of himself. The right food would bring him back to one HP, and make it safe for him to go outside again, as safe as it ever was. The scarring would be inevitable, but it might look cool. The right food and, for a little while at least, Sans wouldn’t cower and hide from him.

He can feel himself loosen up a little as he heads into the kitchen, some strain in his spine and ribcage easing as much as it can these days. His hands automatically seek out the beginnings of spaghetti, and for a few moments he can breathe.

It doesn’t last.

Papyrus sets the water to boil as he chops basil and garlic for his pasta sauce, and he’s calm until he looks up and realizes, a minute after putting in the spaghetti, that he didn’t salt the water. It is an amateur’s mistake, and he pours it all out with more force than necessary. Of course, they have enough noodles to make another batch, but it makes him nauseated to see the failed spaghetti lying in the trash, too bland to serve but an obvious waste.

He starts over, making sure to salt the water, though he finds himself drawn away from his sauce and over to the pot, repeatedly. Did he actually use the salt? The container is still sitting on the counter, but did he actually do it? It’s near impossible to visually tell, and his memory is fogging over with thoughts that maybe he hadn’t at all, maybe he had gotten it out and then forgot. Before putting in the noodles, he quickly spoons up a bit to taste and make sure, the water burning against his teeth but acceptably salty.

Just as he’s about to chop up the tomatoes, he pauses, holding one up to the light. He had bought them only a few days ago, but something about it doesn’t look fresh. There aren’t any obvious dark spots or rotten bits, but he can’t help but continue examining it. Can he really feed this to his brother? If Sans became ill from food poisoning on top of a head wound, it’d be over for him.

The tomato bursts under his continued prodding and squeezing, and he stares at the flesh and juice of it dripping down his bare hand, not at all like Sans’s blood. And yet.

The second batch of noodles burns as he stares down at the tomatoes on the counter, wanting to step back, needing to wash his hands and throw it away, but it looks like how Sans’s head must, all that mess and liquid. The charred smell takes minutes to reach him, and his first few movements are halting and shaky. His arms shake with the weight of the pot as he pours it out again, his efforts wasted. None of it is good enough, worthy enough; eating it will not miraculously heal Sans.

It isn’t a good night for spaghetti, he decides, coming back to himself once he’s wiped down the counters and thrown away the tomatoes. (He doesn’t admit to himself how long it took to get them in the trashcan, barely able to make his hands touch the cutting board, steadfastly refusing to look.)

On a night like this, Sans would want grease, and there was no way he could get it himself, in his condition. Papyrus has to get it for him.

The front door is locked, as is Sans’s bedroom, and Papyrus’s phone is on in case of an emergency, but his steps still quicken as he heads into the snow, struggling not to sprint to Grillby’s. If he stayed out too long, Sans might need him-- in a worst case scenario, he didn’t have enough strength to defend himself. But if Papyrus ran, he would seem foolish, and who would respect him then?

The bar is heaving with customers for the dinner rush, and he holds himself stiff and tall as he walks in. Are people staring? Wondering where Sans is, and why Papyrus is in his stead? He needs to hurry.

“My brother’s usual,” Papyrus snaps at Grillby, who smirks up at him. His movements seem intentionally slow as he finishes pouring someone’s drink and slides it down the bar. Every second is a moment away from home and safety, and his hands start to hurt, static gathering in his fingers and moving up to his wrists. Of course Grillby is toying with him; he knows Papyrus believes he’s too good for the bar, knows that Papyrus hates how Grillby treats his brother.

He holds himself away from the bar, refusing to lean there or touch the grimy wood, as Grillby finally heads into the kitchen. The whole building is clouded with a miasma of bad smells and worse intentions, and it could seep into him at any point, if he isn’t careful. How can Sans tolerate any of it? He already feels like he wants to crawl into a hot shower and not come out until his bones are scalded. Even touching the bag Grillby brings out disgusts him.

He drops his gold on the bartop, turning away before it can hit the wood and stalking out of the bar. Is Grillby snickering at his back? What did the other customers think? Logically, he knew that most of them were drunk or distracted by the slop that Grillby claimed was food, but surely some of them had noticed him. His public persona can’t rest for a moment, not when disrespect could easily turn to violence.

No one broke in while he was away, and he carefully turns the locks behind him and heads up the stairs, before worse thoughts set in. Maybe Sans had bled to death, or dusted himself intentionally, or had fallen into a coma--

He slams his free hand against Sans’s door. “Brother! I’ve brought you dinner, so get your ass out here, immediately!” There’s a minute of silence, and his Soul lurches and shudders in his rib cage, until he can almost hear it pulsing. But then there is shuffling, and the door opens a crack, barely enough to let him see the red in one eye socket.

“Don’t want your shitty food,” Sans mumbles through the door. He doesn’t retreat, however, which Papyrus takes as a positive.

“Unfortunately for you, it is not my glorious cooking, but Grillby’s horrendous garbage. Come out already!” He shoves the bag forward, and Sans, probably smelling it, pushes the door open a little more.

Papyrus freezes, staring down at him. During their fight, his brother had teleported away only a few seconds after Papyrus’s hand connected. He had struck him in the face, but everything had moved so fast that he hadn’t seen the damage.

There’s a sloppy bandage over Sans’s eye socket, with a neat line of blood to hint at the crack underneath, extending from his socket. He wants to tear the bandage off and see the offending wound, but he can’t move. Oblivious to his distress, Sans snatches the bag and slips back into his room, the door locking again with an audible click.

Despite a decade of freedom, that crack threatens to send him back to the lab, back to the cages. Would Sans soon have a corresponding crack underneath his other eye socket? Did he have holes in his palms that Papyrus had somehow missed? Would he turn into Gaster, or would the Doctor come crawling out of the rift in his brother’s head?

He backs away from the door and stumbles down the stairs, his immediate reaction to escape, to put as much distance between himself and Gaster as possible. It’s absurd, childish. Gaster isn’t _here_ , but he can’t get away from the thought, covering his sockets as if it could block out the images in his head: Sans wailing in pain, begging for help that Papyrus can’t provide, as his bones fracture and split open, ribs spreading, skull leaking out dark viscous liquid, his body ripping itself apart to let Gaster out. Sans is so small and Gaster so enormous that it’d be impossible to safely extract Gaster, even if Sans had a thousand HP and all the defense in the world. But Gaster was always good at dragging out what little HP he had, making it last, making it hurt as much as possible...

Papyrus doubles over on the dingy couch, hands now clamped against his teeth. If he had a throat, he’d be gagging, but instead he tries to breathe through a clenched jaw, rocking back and forth. It feels safer to make himself as small as possible, his knees brought up and arms wrapped around them, as if he’s still in a cage that’s only a few paces long and wide, and those paces determined by the stride of a child.

 _Inhale_. Sans isn’t screaming in reality, and if he was in trouble, he would immediately call for help.

 _Exhale_. They are stronger than they were as children, and could surely fight back against Gaster.

 _Inhale_. He can fix Sans’s head, and if he does it properly, the scar might not look like Gaster’s at all. He can’t heal well, but he has the clout of a Royal Guard and can definitely bypass most of the fees the Snowdin healer demands, especially if he looks the other way on the painkillers the healer sells on the side.

 _Exhale_. And Papyrus knows how to dispel Gaster. Sans makes fun of him for all his rituals and rules, but he doesn’t know why Papyrus does them. He has a million ways to protect against disease, murderous humans, the collapse of the Underground... and the return of the Doctor. Sans will be alright, if Papyrus just does the right things and says the right words.

His limbs ache from hunching over, but he pulls himself to his feet, feeling shaky and uncertain. There’s no time to eat and not much food left in the house after his failed spaghetti, so he moves from task to task while chain-smoking. It makes things a little harder (can’t drop ashes on the floor, it looks too much like dust), but the smell is comforting and pushes back the hunger, and smoke was supposed to protect against the dead, wasn’t it?

He can hear Sans drifting around upstairs, but he doesn’t come down as Papyrus vacuums, wipes down the counters again, dusts everything he can reach. The mess is bad luck and contamination being cleaned away, especially the dust; to wipe away dust is to protect against death and pain. He redoes the wards he drew on all the windows and doors, symbols traced in salt water to protect from intruders. He checks the locks every so often, to make sure.

His own room doesn’t require much effort, but he paces around it anyway, straightening his bookshelf and triple-checking his paperwork for typos. Undyne never reads them anyway, and a lot of the other guards make reports that are illegible at best, but someday, someone will notice how diligent he is and... Well, he’d rather not have a promotion, if it meant leaving Snowdin, but a raise would be nice.

At this point, he’s stalling. Sans’s room is the obvious weak point in the house and the only thing left to complete, and Papyrus makes himself walk back up to his door. He readies his arguments ( _Brother, I have to clean your room now, this is not negotiable_ ), but the doorknob turns easily under his hand. The door is unlocked.

The lights are off, but the snow outside sends a faint glow across the room. Sans is curled on his mattress, using his jacket as a blanket rather than untangling the knot of unwashed sheets on the floor.

Papyrus tries to soften his steps, but it’s not enough, and lights flicker into Sans’s eyes. He stares up at his brother, watching him kneel down beside the mattress. The first aid kit is still set out on the floor, and he removes the stained, crooked bandage and wipes up the dried magic on his face. It’s hard to see in the dim room, but the crack is more jagged than he initially thought, not like the neat lines on Gaster’s skull, like someone had drawn them on with a ruler.

Somewhere in the middle of applying a fresh bandage, Sans drifts back to sleep, and he wonders if he’s been forgiven. He doesn’t stir when Papyrus carefully pries his hands up from where they grip the pillow, checking each for a hole in the palm. There aren’t any, and he sighs, stroking his brother’s fragile wrists with relief.

He needs to sleep, so Papyrus cleans the minimum amount to keep him safe, while trying not to disturb him. The main priority, aside from warding his window and door, is scrubbing out the drops of red magic that must have dripped to the carpet while he was giving himself first aid. Papyrus can never let his brother’s blood stain anything-- if the world gets a taste for Sans’s pain, it’ll never stop until it gets more. Later, he will burn the rag he used and the soiled bandages, just to be sure.

He gathers up the obvious trash and the sheets, the things he can deal with out in the other room, but he pauses at the door, before leaving it all out in the hallway. Sans makes a tiny noise of pain after trying to roll onto his side, not awake enough to remember it’s his injured half. As he settles onto his back again, Papyrus comes closer, already seeing a bit of magic bleeding through the gauze. The healer is definitely a priority; they’ll go first thing tomorrow, before their shifts begin.

If it’s still bleeding though... Spilled magic on one’s pillow could only lead to nightmares, and Sans has far too many of those. He peels off one of his gloves, already unsure: what if he made things worse? What if he woke Sans up accidentally?

He reaches out, fingers hovering a few centimeters above Sans’s skull, and concentrates until his head throbs. The faintest green shimmer of healing magic forms, so weak that it wouldn’t be able to heal a splinter. He lets it seep across his brother’s skull anyway, trickling into his nasal aperture and eye socket. If it doesn’t heal him physically, maybe it’ll ease his mind.

Did that help at all? He can’t see any change, so Papyrus checks him.

_Sans. 1 HP, 1 AT, 1 DF. Still loves you._

With a sigh, Papyrus reaches out, fingers brushing against the arch of a cheekbone. Sans mumbles and shifts towards his hand, but he’s already pulling back, walking away, closing the door.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who's waiting on my stuff (mostly Ocean, sigh) I'm sorry about the weird hiatus, I wanted to write all this cool stuff in July, but then my brain fucked off and I'm still getting it back. Things will be glacially slow for a while, so for now just take this. It's half a ventfic, half me trying to figure out what I'm doing with Underfell Papyrus. I don't think it's too much of a stretch for Papyrus to also have an anxiety problem, at least with the backstory I gave them, though it's a different type than Sans's. 
> 
> Also I want him to still sound like a Papyrus, which is really hard.


End file.
